The Notebook
by Cookie-Stories
Summary: "I miss the weight of the bed when you're on it, and the way that you, such a hostile woman towards your peers, would always curl up in my side when you had a rough night." - Before Clint leaves for his first single mission without Natasha, he writes a note in an untouched notebook in case he doesn't come back. CONTINUED.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: this just popped into my head. and no, i did not really use a calculator(: i just figured, hey! why not? warning: it's a little sad. it's from Clint's POV by the way! and i took the Cambodian event from my past experience there(: it's really sad! ALSO, the title to this story has no relation what so ever to the movie. it's just a text, in a old scrappy notebook.**

**disclaimer: disclaimed.**

**Summary: Before Clint leaves for his first single mission without Natasha, he writes a note in an untouched notebook in case he doesn't come back. He dedicates it to her with all their memories over their seven years together. MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. **

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_Dear Natasha,_

_Laugh at me. Wherever you're at, and wherever I'm at. Laugh at me. Maybe I'll hear your voice like chimes in my ears. I really want to hear you again, and it's driving me insane. But... Really, laugh at me, because what you'll see next are numbers and words, and a nice long letter scrawled grotesquely across paper. As you know, I'm not one for sitting down to write, and neither am I one to have a calculator at hand (which I don't, actually. I lent it to you ages ago and never really got it back)._

_But here I am, Tasha, penning down every last memory. You and me, we live our hectic lives by the day. We roll the dice and see where we go, if we go. So, I kind of keep count. Here goes nothing then..._

_It's been 2,549 days since the day I met you. Remember that night? I snuck into your room in Moscow and you pointed a nine millimetre in my face. Since that night, it's been 2,497 days since Fury started us on team missions. That first mission we went on together, it will be 2,494 days since you'd started talking to me without ice in your tone and venom in your words. To tell you the truth, I have to admit, other than the first time I met you, that was the first day I saw Natasha, and not the Black Widow. I cherish that day because we were finally past the point of debt and debtor._

_Let's continue. It has been 2,263 days since you first allowed me to have your back, completely, and 2,160 since you'd first saved my life. 2,146 since our first fight, where you told me I wasn't allowed to leave. You had a debt to pay, and it was going to take years and years. I argued about job descriptions, and you snapped back at me with pure hatred, saying that I was wrong to take you in, that you were better off alone. We stopped talking._

_From there, it's been 2,144 days since Fury transferred you to a location in Borneo to track down a group of Indonesian troublemakers jeopardising Malaysia's part of the country because of racial conflict. He sent you there to infiltrate and extract information on the ring leader for SHIELD to tackle the terrorist group from the heart. It's been 2,068 days since I had finally found you again, compromised by the large group you hadn't really expected._

_I found you tied to a chair with heavy shackles, battered and raped with several cuts all over your skin. You were too weak to walk, so I carried you out after putting a bullet in all of their heads. I really thought you were dead, Nat. It scared the hell out of me that the next day, while you were recuperating in the ICU, I went up to Fury and gave him a piece of my mind._

_It will be 1,984th day from now since the moment I felt the greatest relief, because you woke up after months, and the 1,983rd day since I vowed to protect you and make sure nothing happened. Though, I really did have a question about whether you stayed in their custody because of me. Nonetheless, we started talking again. I can recount that a few days later, you smiled. You never really smile, but you smiled that day. Although weak, it was genuine. The first genuine smile that explained all reasons on why my urge to keep you from harm was gargantuan._

_I never wanted you to lose that smile... 1,639 days ago, I convinced myself that I loved you. I really did, but I guessed that you weren't keen on love. You thought love was a weapon, and I do believe that now, Nat. You weren't wrong. Then, 1,597 since Budapest. We were surrounded by men and guns, and the last guy lodged a bullet into your heart._

_As you got weaker, I told you I loved you. I told you I loved you and I loved you immensely. I'd always loved you. I repeated that until you fell asleep, and I- (There's a teardrop seeping through the page.) I was afraid. Natasha, I was so afraid that you'd leave me like you did to Borneo. And so many times I came close to losing you... The medivac saved you, and you were in surgery for about sixteen hours._

_I tried to get your blood off my hands, and Coulson was there. I washed and washed and just broke down because I knew my promise wasn't well kept. Was it the first time I shed tears for you? I don't know, but I know it wasn't the last. The last was just bare seconds ago. Anyway, the guilt was consumed me, and while you were comatose in the best hospital in Hungary, everything just seemed darker. You were my light, Natasha. You still are..._

_When you didn't remember the whole incident in Budapest, a part of me smouldered with resentment that I had let myself get too far with my emotions. That, however, doesn't matter anymore. It has been 1,362 days since we went weapons shopping in Japan. You gave me tips on each knife and gun, and I remember staring at you in wonder. You knew so much. It will be 1,187 days since the first time I saved you from a mob with that same knife you gave me, and 1,070 since the day you realised that I was a book junkie, always reading in my free time. You found me on the roof._

_In a minute when it turns midnight again, it'll be 985 days since that night in Cambodia where you cried for the less fortunate in the suburbans. The first time you let your emotions through, and you told me about your childhood. I held your hand and reassured you that they were going to be alright. Our charity was going to help them. We got to know a little kid named Swee, remember? He was a charming teen, taking care of his younger siblings while attending school and working. I bet Swee loved you more than me, as a mother of course._

_It has been 861 days since that very night in Paris. We completed our mission, and Fury gave us a week off, all expenses paid. Not that we wanted to abuse the funds, but you insisted on buying every flavour of ice cream in the grocery store - Except durian. You didn't like durian, and I made sure to emit that tub from the list. - , twenty bars of chocolate and two of the best liquors that they sold in the store. You were upset over something, and in fear of losing you like how I did before Borneo, I obliged and didn't ask._

_That evening, you were so drunk that you smeared strawberry ice cream on my face and licked it all up. I have to admit, it was adorable watching you do that. In the end, I was so pumped on alcohol too that I kissed you. We were so open, so free, one of the first time in years. You trusted me and just got completely wasted. That night, strictly friends with benefits as you concluded, was perfectly passionate._

_So, it'll be 798 days since you were sent undercover to evaluate Stark for the Avengers Initiative, 682 since you'd grumbled all about his ego being as big as his head, which looked like a giant acorn, once you were given the green light to activate your alias. We joked all night until I heard you fall asleep over the phone. It wasn't long before I was sent to New Mexico to watch Thor's hammer._

_It's been 635 days since I was told that you had a solo mission in Russia, and I fretted all night wondering whether or not Fury should let me back you up. Instead, I had to stay to watch the Tesseract. There wasn't a second where I wasn't worrying about you. Then... I remember it being 604 days since I'd went under Loki's influence, and 602 when I- I fought a dagger to your throat, Nat. It's been 601 days since shawarma, and then where we were supposed to indulge in our little benefit again, you ended up crying and falling asleep while I cradled you in my arms._

_That night, you told me that Loki took me. He took me from you, and that you didn't know if you were scared of me or of Loki. He took the only thing you owned, and you said you owned me like I owned you. Was that an indication, Nat? But... Never mind that. You looked weathered, and sounded weathered, and all I wanted you to do was sleep soundly. You woke up sweating, pushing me away because your nightmare was about me killing you._

_Horrible. You said. Horrible. You said it was bloody, and I held your face and kissed your forehead. You seemed to believe me that it was all just a dream, that I'd never do that. The nightmares of Borneo, and Budapest, and Loki, they came to me too, but I didn't want to wake you. You were sleeping so soundly for once._

_542 days ago, with a couple of nights in between spent fulfilling our own intimate desires and at one point having Pepper move us into Stark's building, you came up to me while I was on his roof. _I'm tired of pretending._ You whispered to me while we were knocking shoulders, and I stopped. _And I'm tired of trying to forget Borneo, and Budapest. We're not together, and I hate that we're not together. If you love me, why aren't we together?_  
_

_We weren't together, yes, but I was still yours. I'd always been yours from the night in Moscow. I told you that you thought "Love was for children. Love was a weapon." and you told me that was bullshit and kissed me. I can't say that it was the best night of my life - well, it was the top 3 - because it's been 380 days since you, Natalia Alianovna Romanova, had ever willingly agreed to marry me. It was the second time you ever genuinely smiled. I miss that. So much… (Another tear trickles as he writes this, and he wipes it away.) _

_Then, it'll be 291 days since I learnt my lesson. That love was truly a weapon. Five months and half a week away from our wedding, we were sent on a mission. It was the simplest of all missions. We were just needed to infiltrate a arms-dealing base in Albania. You went in on foot as a contractor, while I stood ready to blow up the warehouse, planning to release once you came out of the warehouse. 240 seconds, you informed. You told me that you didn't want to risk being made, so you had to turn off the comm._

_240 seconds, I counted. Natasha, I was too patient. I should have gone in once I felt something out of place. But I counted down to the last second before deciding you didn't make it out. You were always on time, Nat. But not this time. This time, your time was up, with a bullet through your brain. By the time I was there, the men had fled, and you were already dead. I carried you back to be buried under stars and stripes. You deserved it._

_I wouldn't count my tears, but if I remember right, I counted 198 before I ran out. Before I went numb. Before my brain stopped working and Fury couldn't give me orders anymore. Natasha. I miss you. I miss you so much. It's been 193 days since I let myself out from a confined room, gone with denial. It's been 192 days since I'd recognised your absence, and the love was harsh. It was a weapon, leaving dents in my heart. I mourned._

_120 days ago, I went back to Cambodia. The kids there have grown up quite a bit. But I can't help but remember you. You always know how to dig your way through to a man's heart. I stayed there for 72 days, not willing to go back. You know what, Natasha? Swee became a scholar. He's going to study in a university in the U.S in 55 days._

_It's been 40 days since the day we should have had our wedding, Nat. Remember that I'll love you no matter what. No matter how far you are. I'm leaving in less than 35 minutes, for my first mission without you, after you. Fury says it's a suicide mission, but I didn't mind. If I don't make it through this one, maybe I'll be happier. Will you cry? Let's see in 14 days if I can last, or if I'll die young. But you were younger._

_I've told you I loved you enough times to count. I don't mind saying it more, but it truly has lost its meaning. Still, I love you. I miss you. I don't go a second without thinking about you. I go to sleep thinking that if I open my eyes, you'll be there to grin at me and kick me out of the bed. You don't. Not anymore._

_I'll spend the last of my life remembering you. You mean the world to me, and you still do. I promise you this. Can you hear me? Oh Natasha, do you remember that debt you talked about? It's been gone for a really long time, just thought you should know before I go. Because you've given me more than I could ever offer. Natalia Alianovna Romanova. You changed my life._

_I never got to return the favour._

_I love you, Natasha._  
_Always have. Always will._

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**it's my first time writing a personal POV in first person, so pardon me. and i'd appreciate it so much with some reviews!(: tell me if you liked it? if you cried? if it wasn't sad enough? does it make sense?(: thank you in advance!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: this story lives! the idea just came to me again, to give this story a body to offer poor Clint a little closure. so... stay with me alright?(: i loved all your reviews, i really did, you lovely people! thank you for all that, and i apologize for making you guys cry! as for new readers, i suggest you read chapter one first, or you'll be confused by this chapter!(: i hope this chapter isn't substandard, and that you can connect with it like you did with chapter 1! **

**P.S: for this story i'm solely trying to get into the heads of my characters. how they would feel in whenever. i haven't experienced such grief like that before over my almost fifteen years of life, but i try to get into that depth. forgive me if it's too dark than it should be, or if it carries too much self-pity. :)**

**disclaimer: disclaimed.**

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_Dear Natasha,_

_I'm back. I'm alive, and I'm back... But I shouldn't be. I shouldn't be sitting here, writing yet another entry to mourn your absence, Tasha. I thought I would end my mission dead, not alive. I should've returned in a body bag. I don't get it. Is it a debt? Was it written somewhere that the remaining years of your life were to be given to me? Like a payment? I don't want it. I don't want this._

_I love you. Just wanted to get that out. After months, it's still the only thing that makes me feel. Feel something, feel grief, feel pain, feel sadness. Feel guilt, too. And I'm not mad anymore, Tash, about you leaving me. I knew in my days of my denial that it wasn't a promise you could keep forever, nor could I. But the emptiness is addictive. Masochistic and sadistic as it is, the anguish is intriguing, like a drug. It's the only way I feel alive, even if I don't want to be._

_You don't want to hear this, I know you don't. Through such thoughts like this, you always held my hand and gave me strength. I remember the way you would flush out the darkest of all memories and intentions from my mind, because you didn't want me on a gurney with a knife severing my throat. (Clint chuckles, even though his ribs hurt in healing.) There was this one time, crystal clear and vivid in my head, when we tweaked Steve's gift from Tony, an iPod with a fantastic playlist. The way he jumped in his seat at the dulcet sounds of mock screaming and cursed technology, it was priceless. My heart was light. But now... Now it's heavy again. Can you lift it up once more?_

_Anyway, Fury sent me back to the same base, the same warehouse that killed you. He wanted me to infiltrate the ring again as part of the cartel. I had to stride past that dried pool of blood you left behind at least twice a day. Torture. Pure torture. It's even worse than the shadows of bruised ribs and broken bones you give me every now and then. It served as a reminder that I wasn't fast enough. I wasn't good enough. I wasn't trained enough to have your back._

_You'd tell me not to say that if you were still here. But you aren't. So this is my freedom of speech, freedom of expression. I'm allowed to degrade and self-mortify, aren't I? At least it feels painful. It's probably the only thing that does feel anything near realistic. After all, if you feel no pain, you're dead, right? If only. I tried, though. I really did._

_Once I was done, once all that bloodlust had gone from my system with a bullet in each skull, just the way they killed you; I could only stare at the blood on the floor. All the blood. I knew right then that I couldn't live with myself. If I were to live, either you had to live with me, or I had to have something to live for._

_Do you know how much it angers me, Tash, to hear myself breathing when I don't deserve to? It angers me to know that every breath I take now is without you, and every breath I am granted is provided by you. It angers me that it isn't your own. It just makes me so angry, and so defeated. Tears hurt, too. They burn like heated metal on flesh, just like razorblades on skin. I guess I just didn't want you to leave. It just wasn't right, as far as it was, in any way, wrong to want to harbour affliction like that._

_The void I carry in my chest now is larger, and it's getting harder to cope. It's tiring, Tash, and I'm tired. It's a torture to wake up to a world without certainty, without family. Others don't know how much breathing is a chore for someone who doesn't want to live. I know you do. I'm happy you do, and I'm almost happy that you don't have to live like this anymore. Almost._

_Yet, is it wrong to want to have you back? To escape all that anger and all that pain just for a moment of tranquility? I needed a harbour for once, even if I had to go to the ends of two worlds._

_So, I took a pill. Didn't bother calling for extraction. It didn't even hurt, for the next few minutes of futile but painless suffering. Even if my stomach seized or my heart swelled, I couldn't feel a thing. The only thing that mattered was the fact that I wouldn't wake up to another day of recognising my losses._

_I didn't know if Fury wriggled himself into my head or not, but he seemed to have known my thoughts. SHIELD downed the dosage for each cyanide capsule. I didn't die. I wanted to, but I didn't. I always thought this profession was a free pass to death; it had always shined in that honour when I tried to run in opposite directions of dying. Now I run parallel, right into it and it doesn't shine bright anymore. What a joke._

_I roused, tied down to a bed and stripped of all control, in a SHIELD ward. Pissed as I was with not dying, I felt the same towards the team. They weren't supposed to find me and bring me back. I was unstably upset that they just had to poke their noses up into my ass without minding their own business. It's understandable, of course. We were a team, a dysfunctional family at best, and they were just worried._

_Still, I made either cold or no contact with them at all for the next few days. Steve wanted to give me time, and Pepper pitied me because of what happened to you. Bruce knew how it felt, and Thor... Thor just took it right. Tony, well, let's just say he took it hard._

_Remember in Afghanistan, he lost a brother in sacrifice. Then, Coulson. He became a fighter, a soldier, if it's a better way to put it. He knew life was a fight, even when everyone else fell to the ground. He knew he had to fight, and we had to fight, so he was disturbed when I wasn't fighting anymore. He said I was selfish, and that I was a disgrace. Said that I didn't know the world like he did, how things would ease after a storm, because he coped. I disagree._

_The world is a lonely place. Everyone stands alone, an individual by his own. I remember when you told me that. And us, we aren't simply rough incomplete drafts awaiting completion, waiting to be made. We aren't work-in-progress theories that have yet to accommodate the world's horrors. We've seen it all, the way the world is coloured with both good and evil. We've seen red, too much of it. And we've seen torture. We've met, and we've strayed because of it - the terrible colour that hides under skin, just waiting to be explored._

_Tash, I've heard your screams. You told me once that you relive your experiences most of your nights. The first time they grabbed you by your hair and dragged you from your room, and none of the girls helped. And the way they taught you the exact difference between the smart of a rope, a bullwhip, and cow's leather. Out of all of them, out of all the girls they had, and they took-_

_(His trembling hand drops the deceivingly light pen, and it rattles to a halt on the table. Clint's cheeks are soaked with moisture, tears drying away on their trails and making new ones. It's unbelievably hard to stop, he finds. He rubs his palms against his flushed face, and he holds his breath. It doesn't help. The silence just makes it easier to hear the angered dread in his mind.)_

_Your screams are horrible. Tony doesn't know that. It tears me apart. Tony doesn't know that. Your scars are deep. Tony doesn't know that. Because they're all beyond your shoulders. Tony doesn't know that. I can't count them, there's too many to count. Tony doesn't know that. There's one at the back of your neck, so close to a vital vein. Tony doesn't know that. Your past is hell. Tony doesn't know that. Your past is a prison. Tony doesn't know that. You've lost more than you've earned. Tony doesn't know that. Hell, Tony doesn't know anything beyond those four walls of his, and he calls himself God, just as if he's wise like Solomon._

_Did things ease down after I saved you from that hell hole? When I just took you from that hotel room and never returned you to your Russian dominators? You'd say yes. I love you for that, always trying to deny the truth to make me feel better. But your eyes - I miss the colour of your eyes; I miss looking into them and feeling like I'm in the right place - are always distant; they never fail to tell a different story that betrays your own. The night, too, brings your shadows from their hidings to creep into your mind and entrap you in a night of endless, uncontrolled misery._

_Things never eased down. Life was hard for you, Tasha. If I didn't get you enough then, then I get you now. But Tony doesn't know you. And he doesn't know me. Only we know each other like our own reflections. Every single thing. And now that you're gone, I don't know myself either. How can Tony Stark know me, then? How can he judge the world and be proud of himself? Just because he coped, it didn't mean we hadn't. You tried the hardest putting up such a facade; it actually makes me envy your strength on keeping yourself together for most of your days._

_It's the scariest thing, to lose yourself in whatever you have left. To sink so deep into such a demented part of your mind and you can't save yourself. It even scares me, Tash, what we can do, and how we can do it, when we're alone. When there's nobody to control your hand and keep your head straight. How do you do it? After losing yourself for years, and you still manage to find your way back to me, to us._

_Insecure. Maybe Tony feels insecure, afraid that after you, one more person would walk once again, walk out of his life. I think that's it. He doesn't want people to leave. A defense mechanism, that is. A vulnerability. A weakness. But doesn't Tony get it? He can go back. He can always go back, rewind the past and play differently into the present! He can recuperate like broken bones mend. But we- I mean, I... can't._

_A very young, youthful adolescent Clint Barton and a younger Natasha Romanoff took a turning point in life that both spared and destroyed. Led down the path of anger, bloodlust, and the desire for revenge to leave the world's peace in severe imbalance, they made a choice. It's one we can't change now, after everything._

_Remember that they carved their routes. One driven by pain and abuse, the other seduced by the darkness of the capable, misleading mind of grief and loss. Both crippled over time, bent till their backs break and hearts die, only to be restarted in a life that runs parallel but alternately from the past. It's no different, really. We're still killing. I'm still killing._

_You know what, Natasha? I've realised something. This life is like a knife. First time in and the tip presses into the skin of your chest. Over time, it sharpens, and ledgers of red drive it a little deeper. We're bound to die. It just depends on how much time you're given. And when your time is up, when your life finally hits a brick wall, the knife goes right through. You're dead within minutes, left gasping for air and leaving without any explanations on why, and how. Just hurt, and silence. That's how you left. That's how everyone left. Without answers._

_But I don't care about answers anymore. I don't want answers. I already have revenge. I don't need company. I can throw money away. All I know is that I love you so much, too much, and it hurts waking up every morning. Nothing can plug that up or make a suture. It's a loose end no-one else can tie back up._

_I miss you so much that each night is hell. It's cold, lonesome, empty. I'm empty. Really, really empty. All I can hear are your screams when I'm asleep, rousing me on instinct to protect you then remember that you're gone forever. It really brings me to tears and cripples me on the inside. I can't breathe, I can't think, I can't eat. I can't anything. I just... need you. Why do I choose to need you once more when it's too late? When it's past your time?_

_Time. We experience it like an illusion. It passes us by so fast that it's gone before we even know it. Within a fraction of a second, faster than a blink, time disappears. It ticks away with the time to make the right decisions. It ticks away with change. In the end, we're only left with fractured memories and a life full of regret._

_So, if I'm really turning a little number by the minutes, does that mean I'm dead or that I'm dying?_

_To tell you the truth, I want to stop. I don't want to kill anymore. Killing someone is just like killing you. Thinking about killing you with my bare hands, my weapon, is something I resent so much about myself. I don't want any more red. I don't want blood on my hands. I don't want to feel the dulling pulse of a dying man under my fingertips. I want to break free from it so much that it has me trapped tighter. I don't know how, and I don't know why, but what use will that do, too? I'll still find ways and means to fade out anyway. Life as it is, and is becoming, it's kill or be killed._

_I can't take another path, Tasha. I can't take another breath. There's no moving forward. There's no healing. There's no gain. I'm getting tired. I want to stop. The choice isn't mine to make, not anymore. So I truly am sorry. If it makes you feel any better, wherever you are, you've been too strong for me all these years. I salute you for that. I love you for that too. I won't stop, Tasha. I am certain, absolute even, that I can promise love, but I can't promise life._

_I still love you, Natasha._  
_Even in death. (A tear slides down his cheek, leaving one more stain on the worn pages of the tattered, old book.)_

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**I have a feeling that this chapter just made the story take a nose-dive from tragic to stupid, but prove me wrong. this is a definite TBC(: **


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: update! and i'm dying at chemistry. ahh help. and then i watched Bourne Legacy and i DO recommend it completely you jeremy-renner-butt-loving-people! and then i read Hush, Hush (Becca Fitzpatrick!) over the past few days and it's a really good book. keeps you flipping the pages! okay, this chapter has some third-person because i might be merging into that for later parts! enjoy!**

**disclaimer: zilch! :(**

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Dear Natasha,

I saw you today. I really thought I did. A foolish part of me made me believe that the bullet in your brain was gone, your stem was fine, and you were out of your grave. I chased you down forty blocks before convincing myself to accept your departure once more. Accept that you already left.

It had hurt like a fresh dent in my heart and a scar in my head, but I didn't mind. I'm getting used to things like that, though Tony can't drop the fact that he needs to address this issue with me seeing dead people on the street in broad daylight. He thinks I'm losing my sanity. Thing is, I'm just starting to get back on track. When I lost my head and took cyanide, he thought I was reckless. Funny how things like that work out, huh, Tash?

So I've been in bed all day, thinking about the past few weeks and wondering why I'd been so stupid. I haven't written in this book for over a month now, ever since I had made several attempts to die, though that didn't stop me from trying any harder. Tony talked much sense into me after that, and so did the team. He had also put up force fields on his rooftop and made the windows crash-proof. Had JARVIS safe-keep all sharp objects in the tower and confiscated every weapon I held.

I remember when he tried to take your knife away, the one we got in Japan, and I was almost desperate and on my knees for him to let me keep it. Told him it was the only thing of you that held any last meaning to me, that all the others were lost somewhere in the midst of everything, and so he did let me keep it. I wasn't going to let myself succumb to my own weaknesses with something so strong, just like you. If it represented your soul, then I wasn't going to taint it with my blood.

His method worked pretty well, though. Hats off to Stark; An idea, from a man of dubious plans, had actually worked. Offered no other alternatives, I could only go talk to any of them about how I felt and let them give me a thorough lashing out (Mostly from a worried Pepper.), an evaluation (Obviously by the doctor.) and not necessarily an easy conversation of shared feelings.

Listening to Tony, I knew I had to snap out of my miserable trance. I had to stop pitying myself, get back out there, and help keep the rest of the world intact from my tragic loss. He drilled sense into me. _How would you feel, Barton, if you saw your wife stepping out of the bathroom with swollen eyes every night?_You can't ever imagine how much sturdiness had stood in Tony's voice. That shocking rise of determination, mixed together with a cocktail of anguish, sadness and anger, was something one could never see in the Tony Stark.

It had made me realise how it wasn't just me in this devastation. Everyone in our little family was a part of it too, just that they had been stronger for me. I couldn't be selfish anymore and ignore the fact that they were accommodating my ridiculousness even when they had better things to worry about. _Clint... Even though you've lost Natasha, you can't be weak. If you think her death doesn't matter to me, then you're wrong. It really does, and I hate that Pepper still sobs about it and worries about you at the same time. It's taking a toll on her and she's getting hell of a lot more thinner than she should._Tony had fretted.

I had only stared blankly at him at the time, but it made much sense. He was worried about Pepper, and about me. Looking deeper, the man was truly wise, surely more than just a playboy, philanthropist and genius. _Stop acting like you're insane. You need to stop trying to kill yourself. I know you're grieving. I know how that feels, but you need to stand up for her. You have to show her that you're strong even if you hurt inside. If it takes a masquerade to prove your point, then let it be. You can't afford to be weak and breakable anymore, Clint, for yourself, for Pepper, and also for Natasha. Nobody would want to see you like that, not even her. Trust me._/

Trust Tony. It sounds a little catastrophic to solidly trust a man that enjoyed a little novelty every once in a while. Unbelievable as it was, I had, because there was this genuine look in his burning eyes and experience in his voice that had weaved realisation into my head. He'd been playing that same game too. He still is.

Ever since nearly dying in the battle with the Chitauri and losing Phil (Coulson), I believe he's been struggling, trying to keep himself together with masking tape and glue. It was a convincing act he held over the many years we'd known him. But now I can't look at Tony in our common living room without a glimpse of pity or sympathy escaping me. Also, I finally understand how superficial he's being when he cracks a joke or guffaws at a novelty, as well as how thick it is. If you actually stare right into them, they're just like empty shells in comparison to the truthfulness he'd shown in our little chat. The glass that never leaves his hand, filled with all kinds of liquids that can rocket anyone into the severe lack of coherence, is the reason why nobody sees his cracks. After all, you're the safest when you're on the high, right?

Then, there was Steve and his unusually discussed love of his life. Peggy, if I'm not wrong. He told me that she'd been a very fine dame (Yes, he used that word.) and that they had a date. They had talked about it right before he hit the water. _The greatest weakness of most people is our hesitancy to tell others how much we love them while they're still alive. Especially the ones we love the most._Steve said. He had been grieving for the whole of five years, up until now, ever since he'd woken up.

_But you did tell her, Barton. You made her the happiest woman in the world for how long she'd been left with. It's a far cry from where I've been. I was 70 years late. Didn't even have a chance to say goodbye to Peggy. After that, I spent my days punishing myself for letting it happen. Did she have any closure? I don't know._I can't be certain, Tash, that me and the Cap shared the same pain. I do sympathise him, as he does towards me, which sits us on common ground. He never did say if he had closure himself, and it has already been years. I do hope he has though; A man of such altruism, such kindness, and nobody on the outside really knows that his life has been a living hell for years now.

Bruce. Oh, the green guy tells me things too, as if trying to relieve the pain he sees. That man always had a keen eye on sentimentality. I wonder if it's because he's always standing by the sidelines, sidestepping society and watching his loved ones from afar, scrutinising every element of emotion from a healthy distance. Or maybe it's because he's so lost in trying to find himself that he takes in whatever is around him, all except what he really seeks for. The good-hearted man, once happy, all inside.

Every time I had psycho-evaluations with him, he always talked about guns. Bruce said he knew the weight of each possible one, probably almost as well as you do, just the different way. It didn't take a genius or hours of sense-making to know exactly what he meant.

Still, formerly suicidal didn't mean he wasn't scientifically understanding. His words helped me understand every aspect of the anger, the anguish and the loss I carried on my shoulders. _You lost someone you love, and nothing has prepared you for what happens next. You're reacting to intense pain by closing down and buying time to heal. You're doing it through the numbing pains of superficial wounds, thinking that within the next hour, you'll lose function._He had explained.

_You still do. You still function. Your heart doesn't stop pumping and your brain doesn't stop working. You feel like you're cold and numb and dead, and that laying here might just do the trick and put an end to your misery. In fact, you're just operating on automatic now. It doesn't make you feel much because you're willing yourself to keep you withdrawn from the true bout of pain you'll have to face if you function._He thinks that it's fine. That it's perfectly alright to lose control of what you originally had - all of it - to harsh, unpredictable reality.

Then we sat in silence. I didn't bother about what he had to check over, what he had to see. There was nothing to hide, really. If he wanted fresh scars, he could have fresh scars. If he wanted evidence of any attempts at dying, he could have them all. _You know what, Clint? You did give Natasha something she'd been seeking for all her life. You gave her a stable footing on your life, and you let her have that control she needed to glue herself together. I bet she left with no regrets at all. You healed her and you made her feel loved in the right ways. She was happy. You know she was._

It had hit me just like a fatal jab to the side, heated metal searing skin and acid corroding every inch of me, all of them together. So I had it. Everything took a plunge in my screwed up head, and I got mad. I stood up and left, not sparing any looks. If I did, it would have cut.

Bruce didn't try to stop me, though. He just said one more thing. _Don't forget that there's no-one steering your life in a straight path anymore. But you can't drive drunk, either. Find yourself, Clint, please. Find yourself before you're so angry at everything, and that anger finds you. Find yourself before that edge of the blade finds a vital vein, before that bullet finds a place somewhere in you, and before someone you care about finds your lifeless body on the floor. Make sure of that._

I can't count the number of times that anger has found me throughout my life. All that despair, it did leave me scars. The same scars you have. Remember how we'd count the tens of thin, faded scars that told our past, and the way we would reason about why we had cut.

I swear I can't forget, no matter how much it pains me to hold on to, those twenty (or so) cuts that looked so fresh and sore on your arms. It was during our first fight when I'd seen them. Ten on each arm; each of which were your punishment for having me comatose and bedridden for two weeks.

When we talked about self-mutilation during our first month working together, you promised me never to hurt yourself. You said you were through with self-harm. I never understood why you'd still done it over me, but at that time I was too foolishly upset to even bother about questioning you about them. I guess it was because you couldn't get rid of my blood on your hands, and decided it was better to cover them with your own.

I sometimes wish that I'd just broken through that anger at that time and held you instead, because you were bruising yourself everywhere, and I was oblivious to it. It would have prevented Borneo, and the further cutting afterwards. It was when I'd witnessed its occurrence when I knew I had a role to play to keep you level. But... If you had just let me known earlier, I would've done what I did after, before. Before you'd even left to Borneo. It's the lingering guilt I carry up till today.

I guess I'm kinda sidetracking, aren't I? So... I learnt that: All we have right now, between me and the rest of the team, is a foundation of understanding amongst us. It's built on shared pain and shared grief, and it's actually very powerful. A force that attracts and binds all of us together just because we're all a little broken somewhere underneath our abilities and our armour. It isn't anything like what we had, though, so don't worry about them stealing me away from you. I'll always be yours. Be reassured.

And guess what? I found a new way to keep a part of you closer to me. It had to do with carbon or something, I forgot. It didn't cost that much, so I took locks of your hair and turned it into a beautiful diamond ring. This band around a vein that leads right to my heart, and I know I'm forever wedded to you, Tasha. Finally, I have something of you to keep closest to my heart, flushing through my veins and connecting me to you through a perfectly direct route.

You know, it feels like you've never really left on some days. Some mornings I wake up, thinking: What if no one had ever really left? What if you're still here, just different? What if you're actually someone or something around me, just not Natasha, but you're still here? Or maybe you're just a soul, wandering this earth with nothing holding you down to the life you left behind.

While you're out there being whatever you are now, I really do wonder: Do you miss this? Do you miss the team? The company? Being able to talk like there's nothing holding you back? Do you miss being loved and being in love? Do you miss the kisses? The easy conversations? I remember how you never stopped craving for that honey mousse they sold at the shop just down the street, because it reminded you of home. Do you miss that?

And in the midst of finding yourself out there, then, do you miss us? The way you'd usually nuzzle into my neck when you're cold, with a hand resting over my heart to reassure you that I'm still there. I, truthfully, still miss that.

I miss the weight of the bed when you're on it, and the way that you, such a hostile woman towards your peers, would always curl up in my side when you had a rough night. I miss your eyes, Tash, your mesmerising saltwater green irises, so ancient and unfathomable if anyone looked close enough. I miss being that deep, and I miss the way all gaps are filled up because you've become a part of me.

I miss the way you'd pounce onto the couch whenever you spotted a spider even half the living room away, ironic as it is to your name, practically screaming for me to kill it. I miss the subtle rasp in your voice, and the way your accent becomes more prominent when you're tired. The way your mood changes with the day, and how your tone changes with the people you talk to. How you're concerned about the team more than yourself, and how you're always having the strength to be there for anyone, even if there aren't any words said.

I miss how you'd never shed tears on another shoulder other than mine because the rest were an unknown; you didn't know who or what to believe, and to you, I had been the only thing that felt safe to trust. I miss you, Natasha. I do. So does it feel the same out there? Missing everything you can't have?

But whatever the case, whatever the answer, I'm always happy for you. And, though admitting this just might bruise my pride a little, Tony was right. In my last dedication, remember when I said he was talking crap about how he knew life as it was? He wasn't wrong, Nat. Things do ease away after a storm. Hearts do heal, even if the scars can't fade. They don't, but if it takes masking tape and glue to make it all better in time, then albeit the wait, I'll still do it. All I'm waiting for now is closure. Even if it's just a little.

Hmm. It's a long one today, huh. (Clint shakes his head with a hint of a smile gracing his tauter lips.) Goodnight, alright? Tony made Bruce promise that if I wasn't sleeping enough hours to make his standards, which I have a gut feeling means sleeping like a dead pig, he'd have to drug me. And I don't exactly want to be seeing pink elephants twirling in circles and going all gung-ho as they prance around in an exuberant bed of flowers. So... I'll see you soon? Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow. Maybe the day after or in a few weeks' time. Until they calibrate my head again and probably leave me severely concussed...

You know; If someone spoke of any years from now, my guess would be that you'd still be long gone from this world. Right now, I'm just thinking: What happened, Nat? What happened to all of us? How did we end up like this?

Have you forgotten that the queen always protects her king, like in your favourite game of chess?

I love you, Natasha.  
As my blood turns to alcohol.

_The pen bleeds ink onto the yellowed paper, just like how the little stream of red painlessly continues to trickle against the strong breeze, down his arm. In his palm is a glass filled with anything that proved to be able to silence his pain and let him laugh._

_It does, and he does laugh. __Watching his blood, all full of sins and anger and regret, patter like a dripping tap onto the ceramic of the ledge and staining it, Clint is glad because it feels like perfect release. The cut in his palm had been from holding the previous glass too hard, but that doesn't really matter. It is, after all, just a cut. It doesn't hurt a bit in this unresting euphoria he lives in now, in the late hours of the night, on the roof of a skyscraper. Surely, it's better than having a stare-off with Guilt all day and bruising his dignity in losing every single time._

_He looks over the edge from a pleasing height. The gravity that pulls him downwards to the sidewalk is exhilarating. It's thrilling. It's so strong that the darkness beneath, that which clouds over the ground, calls for him. Arms wrapped in black fumes reach out to lick his flesh, but they can never reach high enough. Something crawling deep inside of Clint, though, makes him want to try. He wants to see if those arms will catch him as he falls and steal him away to its homeliness. The darker tranquility._

_The glass slips from his hand and dives down into the darkness, flying right past catching arms and finding the ground with satisfying crash. The remainder of the expensive liquid seeps out onto the sidewalk, surrounding the shattered glass. A startled scream echoes from the street as a woman barely escapes the accelerating force of impact from the glass, stumbling away in shock. So Clint wonders: Will his bones break like that once he hits the ground? _

_With ecstasy twisting and winding about in him, he doesn't bother about the cold wind that slaps his bare face harshly, or about the eighty seven other glass windows that wing out under him vertically. He doesn't fear death like a man in the face of a starving lion, but embraces it instead. It's all because he's drunk. But if being coherent means feeling the full extent of the loss, Clint doesn't exactly want to be sober again until he truly heals._

_He looks over the edge once more, the darkness signaling to him. Clint curls the rims of his lips. What if he just leaned... over... a little... more-_

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**if any of you lovelies would be so kind as to comment on this chapter, it would be really nice to see some emails!(: hope you enjoyed this chapter, sorry for taking so long!**_  
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